


The Ineffable Townhouse

by QuixoticMisnomer



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Art, Comedy, Fanart, Interior Decorating, Misunderstandings, Moving In Together, Mutual Pining, naughty literature, they were roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:35:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22432708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuixoticMisnomer/pseuds/QuixoticMisnomer
Summary: A record regarding the misadventures and shenanigans of two men-shaped celestial beings moving in together after the apocalypse. Featuring a terrorized interior decorator, erotic literature of various pedigrees, a platoon of nosy neighbors, and an egregious amount of linen.----Please don’t say it. Anything but that.“Well I mean…” the blonde sighed, forlornly “A bird may love a fish, but where would they live?”“In a townhouse.” Ms. Verlock dropped the heavy pile of catalogs onto his desk. “Now pick out some carpet.”----The author apologizes in advance for utilizing the personal affairs of said celestial beings to play out a deep love for the hair-brained plot lines of 90’s rom-coms and their own rampant interior decorating fetish.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 41





	1. The Ineffable Decorator

Harriet Verlock was terrified.

She couldn’t be bloody terrified. I mean, she had made it through a double mastectomy for chrissake, and worse, much worse, the horrific inflatable furniture craze of the early 2000s. That had been a real terror for interior decorators if there ever was one. Her therapist was still on her business expenses list, she still couldn’t see a bike pump without needing to do breathing exercises.

Well. Perhaps terrified was the wrong word. But she was being terrorized, that was for damn sure. Same root word. It was, right? Terrific had it though too, so maybe it was more in how it was used.

If the blonde one was here (and she’d been silly enough to wonder about linguistics aloud in his presence), he would have given her one of his “aren’t you lovely and adorable” smiles that a woman of her age and professionalism couldn’t help but be leery of, before launching into the full Mirriam-Webster definitions, followed by an entomological lesson along the lines of:

“Yes, the word comes from the latin root ‘ _terri_ -’, which means frightful, fearful; fear; fright; literally, causing terror! In the case of terrify, that comes more specifically from the Latin _terrificare_ "to frighten, make afraid. The word terrific used to have a more negative connotation of something instilling awe-inspiring terror, but of course language like to change so much on us! It’s quite-”

Right. Something like that. She nearly rolled her eyes. Terrorized. Beset upon by two world-class terrorists. But this wasn’t the point. Linguistically inclined blondes, that was closer to the point. The point was… the point was..

Marble.

Harriet jolted a bit, realizing she’d been absentmindedly stroking a massive slab of unfinished marble in a dimly lit warehouse as her mind wandered. The warehouse manager, covered in a fine patina of stone dust, eyed her, looking from her to the groove she apparently was trying to wear into the newly arrived Italian Arabescato Vagli marble with her thumb. That he seemed to have a sympathetic tenor in his understanding of her absentminded fondling of rocks did nothing to help her sudden embarrassment. Harriet dropped her hand from it quickly, cleared her throat.

“I want this entire block-”

“But- Ma’am! It’s just arrived and I have other customers who have been asking after it. Surely you just need enough for a countertop or two. It’s a very expen-”

“Robert! Come now. Does it sound like I didn’t know what I was asking? I will pay up front for the whole thing, offcuts and all. We’ll send you specifications for cutting over the next few weeks and have it out of the shop by the end of the month.You couldn’t make a cleaner sale and you know it.”

With slight defeat, the manager nodded, knowing his business and, more importantly, knowing her. As he turned to talk into his radio to order the forklift crew over, Harriet turned back to the exposed polished side of the marble. 

Perfect.

Large, gorgeous blocky sweeps of incandescent white quartz, broken only by thin splashes of spidery veins of bold black, softened and highlighted by smatterings of unctuous gold winding and pooling around in the veins. Perfect perfect PERFECT. Just classically elegant and tactile enough to please the blond, with the perfect level of fuck-off imperiousness to appeal to the ginger. After weeks of searching through warehouses and online wholesalers, Harriet grinned savagely, triumphantly, and pulled out her phone to snap a few more photos for the portfolio.

\----

It hadn’t started as feeling terrorized. It had started with anger. It still surprised her, when she let herself think on it, which was not often, that she had taken the job. That introductory consultation had been ghastly. It had been when she had started referring to them, internally, as “the blonde” and “the ginger”, partially out of spite. Couldn’t blame her really. The ginger- Crowley, who yes, seriously, was one of those people that left sunglasses on indoors at all times, had started to referring to her as “Decorator” despite being told her name.

“So. Decorator Woman, do you think-”

“Come now Crowley, her name is Harriet, unless you’d prefer us to call you Ms. Verlock...? And-”

“Right right right, as I was sayin’. Do you think you could figure out how to make this...” here he whipped out a bony, black nail-polished hand to wave jerkily between his body, which was all sleek blacks and tight fitting fashion, and his partner’s quirky ‘professor from an Agatha Christie novel’ getup, in the universal sign of ‘surely you see what I mean’ “...work together in this space?” He uncoiled his aggressive slouch to lean forward and plopped a realtor’s packet onto her green leather desktop.

At the time Harriet had already mentally drafted the polite “We’re a little too busy to take on new clients” speech, though her indignation at his not-so-casual inference that he rather didn’t expect her to be up for the job had launched a full fantasy of just smiling and saying “Nope!” before kicking them out. Which was too bad for her, let this be a lesson dear reader, to follow your gut when strange men wearing too much black show up in your life. 

British manners are tricky habits to knock though, so instead Harriet picked up the rudely dropped packet with steely professionalism, and began looking through the photos. As if she even remotely going to consider working for these men.

Once upon a time, Harriet had worked at a large firm, making much better money than she did now as a small independent contractor. It had the sole purpose of making her aware that life was too damn short to spend it convincing every poor sap that walked through the door that no- they didn’t want a library with vines carved into the shelving and warm, wooly rugs, and no- they probably would regret that decision to install a bath that looked like a forest grotto as soon as it was installed. That all their pinterest boards, and, absolutely more wrenching, hand draw stack of back of a napkin doodle, were a good starting point, but have you heard of Swedish modernism? Tasteful grays and empty countertops with a few interesting wood vases. That was the ticket, wasn’t it? You may have finally gotten financially secure enough as an adult to buy a nice home with a garden like you always wanted, but god forbid it look different from anyone elses’. Even worse, god forbid the firm lose any of her time and expensive retirement package to being original when there was a perfectly good template and the manufacturer’s sales commision to go with it.

Harriet had wanted interesting. She delighted in challenges. She loved little doodles on napkins and blurry photos of a shinto temple someone saw on holiday that just had a “certain something”, and she wanted to bring that into reality. She thrived on not just how to style a grotto bath to make absolute sense, but on the challenge of figuring out the kind of person that would want one and what it was they were really trying to get out of a home. To make a whole home that would truly delight that person instead of a copperplate “fashionable” interior from a home decorating show they thought they ought to like. Nothing against shiplap, but goodness there were other options.

Focusing in on the photos, Harriet found the gears in the attic were, to her surprise, suddenly groaning happily. Little edison bulbs behind her eyes began to glow as she glanced over the rundown Soho shop with a brick terraced townhouse on top. The shop itself was painted the most unappetizing shade of Pepto-bismol pink imaginable. “ **_Intimate Books_ **” had not only seen better days, but had obviously been desperate enough to try to paint the facade a lurid genitalia-adjacent color to inspire Soho shoppers to cross the street on the other side in case it was catching.

Harriet glanced up at the pair. The blonde, _okay, Aziraphale,_ was giving her an understanding smile. Yes, it was parked there on his face, all well intended with every desire to make her feel at ease. But lord if she couldn’t see the “ah well, you tried your best dear” of a slightly condescending grandfather who never really expected her to do anything but be a disappointment. This all despite the man himself riding in that odd hard to pin down age of 32-45. At least 10 years her junior. It was plain he didn’t expect her to really be up for it either and the gentle understanding there irritated more than the directness of the ginger’s bored grimace. However, she stamped down her frown and looked back at the photos. 

Above the horrendous shop was a three story brick townhouse, one at the end of a terraced row so the two upper floors of windowless brick were exposed above the adjacent two story building. Quiet rare in Soho to have side windows like that. Good bones, it was straight for sure, and the windows it did have hinted at high ceilings and could be widened-

“May I ask why you chose this space?” Came out of her mouth. How odd. She thought, she was quite sure she meant to finally let lose that ‘nope’ that had been riding on her tongue all morning.

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other.

\----

_Three weeks previous._

“ _Then as he began to move, in the sudden helpless orgasm, there awoke in her new strange thrills rippling inside her. Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite and malting her all molten inside. It was like bells rippling up and up to a culmination. She lay unconscious of the wild little cries she uttered at the last. But it was over too soon-”_

“Angel!” Aziraphale jumped in surprise, clutching his book and sending a few stray crumbs of salted caramel biscotti tumbling down to the floor.

“I’m just back here in the office, no need to shout!” He called back through the dusty bookshop as he lovingly placed the copy _Lady Chatterley’s Lover_ down on his desk. Aziraphale pulled his small spectacles off, polishing them lightly on his worn velvet vest before realizing it was covered in crumbs. Sighing in defeat he waved his hand absentmindedly and miracled everything tidy, including the three cold cups of tea scattered around the place. The glasses winged across the office to their antique fabric lined case. It snapped closed smarty just in time for the entry of all the swaggering blackclad limbs of London’s personal nightmare which promptly launched itself onto the sofa. Crowley propped his snakeskin boots up on the arm, tossed his jacket on the floor, and let out a thunderous hiss. Aziraphale cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Can’t stand my flat” the demon grumbled, uncrossing and recrossing his ankles, fidgeting as if the couch also had suddenly decided to be purposefully uncomfortable. Crowley sneezed at the dust his outright abuse of that poor old sofa had risen up. Served him right, Aziraphale thought huffily, as he walked over and peered down at him.

“What ever do you mean? What is wrong with it? Other than being completely tasteless of course...”

“Oh that’s rich! As if angels had any taste. I mean, coming from someone living like a packrat in the shop Time Forgot.” Aziraphale opened his mouth to rebuke him, but Crowley threw his arms up over his head and stretched, a pale strip of skin at the stomach now exposed. A dark thatch of red fuzz traipsing from the navel, thickening and hinting tantalizingly downwards. _Oh lord lead us not into temptation…_

“Nothings wrong with it in particular. Might just be time to move.” Crowley sniffed, snatching his sunglasses off and rubbed hard at his face. “Never really thought much of the flat of course. Keep some wine in the cupboard, have a nice bed to kip in, a place with the right sort of appearance for humans looking to do a deal with a- “ Crowley paused to open his eyes and wink at Aziraphale “suave devil-”

“Oh. _Really_.” Azirphale pursed his lips. Crowley grinned up at him before his face dropped back to the woe-is-me, dramatically throwing a hand over his forehead in a pretend stage faint.

“Cannot even sleep properly! Imagine Aziraphale! Me!” Aziraphale crossed his arms, fighting back a smile. “Now I get antsy hanging rough there. Eleven years on pins and needles waiting for things to blow up in my- in our faces, and on top of that I swear I can still smell melted demon. Those unimaginative bureaucrats have written us off the books, but it’s got too much-” Crowley waved a hand dismissively, in the universal sign of ‘surely you see what I mean’, and looked up at Aziraphale. “What d’you reckon? Bad idea to stay in the same place they found us in before anyways, eh?”

Aziraphale paused before answering. “Moving” had no business sounding so daunting. They’d moved around constantly in their many years, he himself still felt barely settled into the bookshop after a scant 200 years. Yet the idea of moving sat there seeming to hold much more weight than it should. It now seemed everything since the apoca-wasn’t a few months back had strange gravity, decisions holding surprising density and pulling heavier at him than expected. Mentally it made one reel and stumble, the two of them stumbling drunkenly on unsure legs in this new landscape of hidden vertigo. Really, how did humans deal with this free will thing all the time, it was a bloody nuisance even with immortality. 

“If you’re implying I move out of this shop, now that I finally get to enjoy it without worrying about Sandalphon coming in and poking his smiting little nose into my books… you’ve got another thing coming you daft old demon.” Crowley’s dramatic moe of frustration broke apart into a cackling, monstrous laugh. Aziraphale felt the smile he’d been fighting break through.

“Ha! Satan below, I always knew you had it in you to be proper catty!” Crowley snorted and sat up, leaning back against the sofa in that sprawl of self-aware slick mischievousness that Azirphale had always really expected him to be ticketed for. He was pretty sure he had been. Public indecency.

A comfortable but waiting silence fell. Aziraphale rubbed his chin and turned away slightly, thinking. He could feel those wide, unblinking snake eyes watching him, waiting. He hadn’t really answered the question properly. Not the real question that was underneath. _Are we safe? ----_ Crowley was devious, and oh so clever. Questioning, poking; a nose for trouble, an eye for the truth behind things and the desire to know it. Quite handy for getting out of work and keeping out of trouble.

Aziraphale’s mind on the other hand had been crafted for the siege, for strategy that would make it through the long haul. Whether that be the long haul of making it through one of Gabriel’s team building meetings, or keeping Heaven none the wiser for 6,000 years of fraternizing with the enemy. The balance between them had kept them safe over the years of the Arrangement, Crowley questioning; “this way?” or “what if we-?” or “this looks like an ambush” and Aziraphale considering the information, taking a look at the landscape- “too risky, better lock the gate” or “yes, we can go by this road”. _Not yet, too fast._ It had been a long siege, hard to imagine it being over. 

The angel stretched slightly as he leaned back, looking up at the night-dark glass dome over the shop, the dim, crowded bookshelves of the upper floors. Muscles not often used, but never gone groaned and slid under his shoulders, old soldier instincts humming quietly. He closed his eyes and thought of Soho behind the walls and the sprawl of London beyond. Between them they knew the name of every street in it, and every street that had ever been. He could feel the slight tinge of fear carried by Mrs. McCready next door fussing over her granddaughter’s croup, and across the way; the soft ache in Tamal’s lips as he watched the skilled hands of the kind barista making his chai latte. If he wanted to, he could hear the small, fast, beating of the hearts of two fledgling robins under the bookshop’s third window on the west side.

“I think I know the gates of this fortress rather well.” Aziraphale finally said, turning back and releasing his shoulders into steady posture. Crowley paused, eyes flickering over him. A small grin tugged at his lips, as understanding glinting in amber eyes. 

“But that doesn’t mean you- I mean.” Aziraphale fumbled. “Where would you want to move to Crowley, are you thinking of leaving London?” _Or-?_

“Couldn’t even I wanted to right? You’ve decided to be here.” Crowley propped his chin in his hand and looked away, growing pensive. Aziraphale’s brows drew down

“Ah.” Aziraphale turned away to grab some scotch and tumblers from the bar cabinet.

\----

“Well we, uh, just finished up some nasty business, so to speak. And-”

“Figured it was a good time to sell my flat while the market was up, make a tidy profit-”

“I spend so much time in the bookshop, it was rather convenient timing the place next door went for sale-”

“Finally decided to give the old cohabitation a go-”

“Not that we’re in any sort of rush, we’d like to do it right-”

“Right. No cutting corners on us Decorator. Absolutely quality work, money is no issue _of course_ ” 

“Oh! Nothing too ostentatious though! Just, well! It would be nice to have more space, to- uh- stretch out. Relax! That’s the word. Yes, relax after a few frantic years! Ha!”

 _Ah._ Thought Harriet, smoothing the front of her blazer and looking away in contact embarrassment. _Two horrifically sexually repressed men move in together for the first time._ She may like a challenge, but she was no fool, this would be atrocious.

\----

_Two weeks previous._

“Hold on just one moment. My dear boy. You cannot, under any circumstances lead me to believe that you. The demon Anthony J. “I don’t read books” Crowley, has purchased a bookshop! I won’t believe it. You absolute tease-”

“Ah, but I’ve got the deed right here!” Crowley grinned, sashaying away from Aziraphale and across the angel’s bookshop waving a stack of papers over his shoulder as he headed for the wine stash. Aziraphale stuttered and fumbled after him, finally snatching the papers away from the demon’s clutches as Crowley’s eyes twinkled back at him behind dark sunglasses. Aziraphale sank into his desk chair and began looking the documents over. The familiar “thump” of a demon sprawling on the sofa drinking his wine was only diminished by the dull roar of rain lashing the windows in the midst of another fine British summer.

Actually it was all diminished by the slight roar in Aziraphale’s ears caused by a lot of blood rushing quite quickly to his head. _He didn’t!_ He could practically hear the bastard grinning too, watching him fluster.

“You bought a bookshop of erotica- of- of pornographic literature!?” Aziraphale hissed like a kettle reaching steam. Lord give him strength he was going to strangle a snake tonight. Where did one even dispose of the body of a 40 foot demonic serpent these days? The Thames had used to be so convenient, but they probably watched it now.

“I made a very reasonable purchase of an investment property in the newly re-invigorated Soho dissstrict.” Crowley said, innocently, like he was explaining a purchase to a suspicious accountant. The hiss gave away what was probably very demonic glee oozing into every syllable, he toasted the angel and drank down a hearty sip.

“Wait just a minute dear-Soho? _My_ Soho!?” Aziraphale frantically went through the papers, finding addresses and property descriptions. He looked at the address, and looked up at Crowley, and down again. “Tell me you didn’t”. Crowley nodded the affirmative, going quiet and watching Aziraphale closely. 

Aziraphale quietly reread the document, then sighed and placed the papers in a tidy pile on the desk. He got up, rolling and stretching his shoulders, and quietly trod into the back room. Behind him Crowley was tensely still, gold eyes flicking back and forth slightly, watching. The angel came back out with a dusty bottle, and with a flourishing grin placed the absolutely ridiculously vintage bottle of champagne on the table.

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up, and he hummed a pleased noise as he looked over the bottle, tracing the label reverentially with long tapered fingers. “Oh _angel_ ” he purred, “How long have you been hiding _this_?” Glancing up, questions in his face and on his tongue, as always. Since the beginning really. “For what?”

“To celebrate!” Aziraphale said, chuckling, clapping him on the back, Crowley made a noise like he'd had the air knocked out of him (he had, the angel was bloody strong). “To my new fellow bookshop owner, and new neighbor!” Aziraphale snapped his fingers, conjuring up fine champagne flutes and a small explosion of gold confetti for effect. “I’ve no idea what you plan to do with ‘Intimate Books’, and I shall miss having such lovely neighbors-” _they really had been nice people_ , Aziraphale thought, even despite that really large section of Christian erotic literature in the window display with the very strange notions about “heavenly grace” and angelic anatomy, “BUT, I shall be even more delighted to have you as my neighbor.”

He really would he realized. The thought of having Crowley close at hand caused a previously unknown knot of anxious muscle release. Close, where that reckless son of hell could be watched over. Where there’d be someone around in the evenings to share a rare find of port with. Maybe just being able to see a light on in the window next door, to know there was someone close by.

“Think you’ll be able to stand a demon under foot, under wing?” Crowley chuckled, holding out the flute to be filled.

Aziraphale raised his flute “To think I’ve made a bookseller out of you after all these years. Finally come around it seems!”

\-----

She ought to say no right now. This was going to be a disaster. Every design choice was going to carry the unbelievable emotional weight of being somehow symbolic of their relationship. She glanced down at their hands, no rings, right. DAMN. Moving in together for the first time, all the appearance of an anxious odd couple. Late in life to love and terrified of it. She knew she should show them the door now. She couldn’t take on clients like this, it’d be months of back and forth sniping at each other and emotional breakdowns over bathroom paint color and “oh we’re so different how could it ever possibly work!” It was paint, it could bloody well be repainted. But no, they wouldn’t go see a couples therapist like responsible adults to address their insecurities and communications issues, they’d use an interior decorator to work it out.

She knew there’d be a “A fish may love a bird, but where would they live!?” thrown in there. That phrase should be banned in every country and every language, where was the protesting in the streets for useful things like that.

Right. Well past time for that polite speech. Sliding the photos back into the packet, one slipped free from the stack onto her desk. Some poor real estate agent must have spent ages figuring out the angle that didn’t highlight how dirty the single pane was, or the obvious peeling paint of water damage around the old dormer window, but that there was a view. Albeit one you had to fight a swollen casement window in a 200 year old building so you could stick your head out the window and see it, because there weren’t any windows actually properly facing it. Over the adjacent 2-story bookshop, you could see down a bustling Soho street crammed with historic buildings, flags and flowers decorating the lamposts for the summer tourists, and at the end of the block the grand old trees of Soho Square loomed over the hubbub. _Limoncello on warm summer nights._ Harriet could hear the music and chatter, a breeze from the Thames lifting the air and rustling the trees in the park as twilight sauntered into night. _A balcony- no. A garden, on the roof._ Yes, jasmine on the trellis, the smell of it and smoke from the kebab place down the street mixing with the sweet sour taste of the aperitif in the twilight. Her fingernail traced a line down the side of the photo. _Big glass windows along this side, and skylights in the kitchen._

Sharp shiny glints of inspiration crystallized, sparking as they collided. Rooting, bursting into the forebrain, growing faster and faster. Harriet’s cheeks went hot as her brain roared into overdrive, demanding more oxygen to fuel rapidly firing synapses.

Damn it. She closed the file and sighed, fighting the urge to grab for a notebook and begin sketching.

“Three things Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell.” Harriet looked up, stern, forcing her hands to clasp each other instead. “First. I know this house is likely guarded by some historic preservation laws-” Crowley opened his mouth “And I never want you to tell me how you’re going to get me absolute permission to do as I please.” Crowley’s mouth snapped closed with a ‘ _click’_. 

“Second, I ask something very specific from my clients, that may be hard to give.” She held up a hand as Crowley opened his mouth again. “No, not money, though we WILL be working on a budget Mr. Crowley no matter how good your credit is. No I ask for a modicum of trust.” She re-folded her hands as the two men both opened their mouths. “I get the impression that will be slightly difficult for both of you, you strike me as being fairly particular.”

“Well!” said Aziraphale, with an astonished huff, entirely transparent.

“We will of course work closely together so I can make the kind of decisions to provide you with a home that reflects you and your needs. That said, I can’t be halfway through the build and have you try to take back control from me. I work best this way, when I have freedom to make choices I see are best for the space and for you. If you don’t like my work, I’ll do my upmost to repaint or retile, but otherwise if those conditions won’t work we should end this meeting and I can recommend other decorators for your project.” 

Harriet leaned back, crossed her arms, she did her best to hide her nails digging into her smart navy linen blazer. 

“Third, you will call me by my name.” Here she narrowed her eyes at Crowley.

There was a slightly shocked pause. Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, eyebrows raised. Crowley shrugged.

“Well, you’ve got yourself a deal” Crowley’s said, reaching his hand over her desk. Harriet paused before extending her own, his voice was suddenly deep and oddly gravely at the edges. He took her hand in a firm, practiced grip. _Why does it smell like smoke in here?_ His hand felt hot on her palm, too hot. She barely resisted the urge to yelp and yank free. Instead, drawing on 30 professional years of dealing with male ego, she met his grip and his gaze as best she could through the sunglasses. Beyond dark lenses, there was a shiny glint and twitch of amusement peering back at her, and deep down in the monkey genetics, something started to panic. _RUN. RUN AWAY._ But fires of inspiration in the synapses burned hot and dragged her forward.

She missed Aziraphale rolling his eyes a little impatiently.

___

“I like her” Crowley pronounced. “Clever human that, despite shaking hands with the devil.” 

Aziraphale hmmed to himself noncommittally. “Yes dear was that really necessary? Laying on a bit of the old drama a bit thick weren't we?”

“Oh let me have some fun angel, since we’re not just magicking our way out of this whole mess.”


	2. The Full Design Portfolio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one wehre the author releases the all the fanart she created for this story, including architectural renderings, enjoy!

FROM: H.Verlock@verlockconsulting.com TO: AJ_Crowley@hell.biz; Aziraphale@easterngate.angelfire SUBJECT: Final Blueprints and Design Portfolio for Review

Dear Mr. s Crowley and Fell,

We have just completed the final design draft for the renovation of your Soho Townhouse. Attached you will find the architectural rendering based on the blueprints, and we have just received approval to proceed with construction from the relevant permitting agencies. Also attached is my portfolio detailing the interior design schemes for each room. We can discuss more at the consultation meeting on Tuesday.

Sincerely, H. Verlock Verlock Consulting

p.s. Mr. Crowley- I apologize if I misinterpreted your latest request as a joke. I’ve also attached my contact who consults on construction of secure military facilities, he can hopefully help you figure out how to install a “elevator with a trap door into a boiling pit of tar for unwanted visitors”.

______

These two are your rich chaotic gay uncles who of course are renovating an upscale townhouse in the most extra way possible. Have you seen The Birdcage? I bet Crowley has. 

I love the fan fiction of the cottage or the flat above the bookshop. However, one of the fun, strange moments of relationships is moving together into a new space together and making it belong to both of you. You can make a lot of hay about how different these goofs are, but I think they’re both posh British bastards at heart that enjoy fine, expensive human things. Plus have enough shared history to make a home out of that without one sacrificing everything they like to live with the other. I can’t stop imagining Aziraphale become a feral hedonist for high end, comfy furniture once the Heaven limiters are off. 

Also, the building is this one on the left, with the orange storefront: 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey to anyone subscribed to this! I am uploading all the fan art I had made for this story here in Chapter 2 so that can enjoy. After many hours of writing I just couldn't make this story *go* so in celebration of the 30th anniversary, I wanted to let this see the light of day.
> 
> Hope you are well in these crazy times!

**Author's Note:**

> There is a large file full of inspiration photos for what this thing looks like, and Yes there is already a final art piece for when the remodel is done. Don't you fret. Will update as work schedule allows, but feedback is so appreciated right now.
> 
> Come say hello!
> 
> Artstagram: www.instagram.com/cranky_aster  
> Tumblr: www.cranky-aster.tumblr.com


End file.
